Just Friends

by Robyn Sisman

  “At the Met? Freya, those tickets are like gold dust. And you’re practically German: How can you not like Wagner?”

  “All that yearning and churning.” Freya shuddered. “And my mother was Swedish: quite different. I’m a totally kraut-free zone.”

  “Well, I’m Italian, and I adore Wagner. He’s so romantic.”

  “Not the R-word. Please.” Freya pressed a hand to her forehead.

  “Of course. I’m sorry.”

  A Chinese woman in worn slippers halted by their table and gave a surly jerk of her head to show that she was ready to take their order.

  “I’ll have a number five,” said Cat. “What about you, Freya?”

  “I couldn’t eat.”

  “Of course, you can eat. Now hurry up and decide.”

  Freya stared at the inscrutable menu. A Bloody Mary with extra Tabasco was what she wanted, but they didn’t serve alcohol here. The restaurant specialized in tong shui, a type of Chinese health food that tasted good but had an eye-of-newt and toe-of-frog quality that always made her scrutinize each mouthful for alien substances.

  “You choose,” she said. “Nothing with more than four legs.”

  When the waitress had gone, Freya finished her story, then sank her chin in her hands and fixed Cat with a mournful look. “Be honest, Cat. Why doesn’t Michael want to marry me? What’s wrong with me?”

  “Nothing!” Cat was gloriously emphatic. “You’re gorgeous, smart, funny. What’s wrong with him is the question. If I could get my hands on that Michael, I’d feed him through my mincing attachment. Hmmm . . . Minced Michael—I could add him to my collection.”

  Cat always invented epithets for her men. There’d been Simian Simon, Rod the Bod, Dandruff Dylan. It was her form of self-defense when relationships ended. But they weren’t talking about Cat’s men. Freya wrenched the subject back to herself.

  “I find the only man in New York who actually wants to commit—but he doesn’t want to commit to me. Why not?”

  Cat considered. “You don’t think—?”

  “What?”

  “You don’t think he could have found another woman?”

  “Michael? Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “In that case, he probably got cold feet. Personally, I blame the media. Every time you open a magazine, there’s another article about how desperate women are to get married. No wonder men are scared. If you ask them to pass the butter they flinch. Ten years ago it was HIV; now it’s single women: the new plague. Run for your lives!”

  Freya giggled, forgetting for a moment how miserable she was. Cat always made her laugh. They had met years ago, at a tap-dancing class of all places, where Cat had broken her ankle while attempting a double pick-up. Freya, temporarily homeless, had ended up taking care of her and sleeping on her pullout bed. The two of them had bonded over chilled vermouth, fiery penne all’arabiatta, old Bruce Springsteen tapes, and killer games of backgammon. Freya had discovered that Cat’s Latin temper, Columbia-educated mind, and I-want-it-and-I-want-it-now attitude of the native New Yorker concealed the most generous heart she knew. Cat adored her family, a huge Italian American tribe based in Staten Island. She knew all her neighbors in her apartment block by name. She had a passionate social conscience and contributed hours of free legal work to those who couldn’t afford the fees. Despite her feminist principles, you could make her cry by telling her that Rhett and Scarlett never did get back together again. Their relationship may have started out by Freya looking after Cat, but both knew that the reverse was now true. It was Cat who cooked Freya meals when she was down, listened to her moans about Lola, bought her a potted plant every time she moved apartments (it always died), and picked up the pieces when some man let her down. Freya had many close acquaintances in this town—friends in the art world, a few of the old Brooklyn gang, people who invited her to parties and dinners and did the kissy-kissy bit when they met—but Cat was a real friend. Freya trusted her absolutely.

  The food came with indecent speed, confounding any pretense that it had been freshly made. Picturing an array of witches’ cauldrons in a health inspector’s nightmare kitchen, Freya took a tentative bite.

  “Maybe it was a mistake to walk out on Michael.” Cat was thinking aloud. “I mean, what if he was testing you, to see if you’d come up with a more positive response? If you’d stayed at the restaurant and talked through the situation, he might have changed his mind.” She shot Freya a speculative look. “Even now, he could be reconsidering.”

  “What?” Freya choked on a noodle.

  “Just think. It could still all be yours: house, children, Connecticut.”

  “But—”

  “Station wagon. PTA. Country club.”

  “Don’t!”

  “A nice big Lassie dog to play with the kids.”

  “Stop trying to torture me.”

  “Aha! I thought so. Admit it: you liked the idea of getting married, like those sad women who fantasize over Bride’s magazine.”

  Freya glowered at her health slop. She didn’t want to admit anything of the kind. Michael had rejected her. It hurt.

  “I’d like to have seen you in pink, though.” Cat gave her rippling chuckle. “Pink!”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  “I’m sorry, sweetie.” Cat reached out impulsively for her hand. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out with Michael. But you could be awfully disparaging about Michael. You never even let me meet him.”

  “I know.” Freya was embarrassed. For some reason she was always secretive about her emotional life. Or maybe she felt Cat knew her too well and would judge her too severely on her choice? Anyway, Cat would have scared the pants off Michael. She shrugged. “You’d hate Michael. He’s so straight.”

  “But you wanted to marry him?”

  Freya squirmed under Cat’s challenging gaze. The truth was that she probably did want to marry someone, sometime. The fact that she might in the end have rejected Michael was beside the point; he hadn’t even given her the option. “Well, I thought I did,” she mumbled, absently twiddling the bottle of chili sauce. “Mind you, he was never exactly King Kong in the bedroom.”

  “Really?” Cat was agog. “You mean . . . technical problems?”

  “No, the equipment worked. Let’s just say that I think he must have read about the importance of foreplay in some magazine.”

  “But foreplay’s my second favorite part!”

  “Depends how it’s done.” Freya pulled her chair close and leaned across the table. “Say you decide to have a really nice dinner, at the dining table, at home—but naked. And the rule is, you’re not allowed to touch until dessert. Now that’s fun.”

  “I’ll say.”

  “But with Michael it was a bit like going to the dentist. You know, first you make an appointment, then you sit in the waiting room reading a magazine, then the hygienist cleans your teeth and tells you all about her vacation in Florida, and then you rinse and spit, and spit and rinse, until you think, ‘For chrissakes, get out the bloody drill!’ ”

  Cat yelped with laughter, making heads turn. “That’s so cruel.”

  “What are these crunchy bits, by the way?” Freya poked moodily at her food. “Toad’s testicles?”

  “Probably ginkgo nuts, or lotus seeds. Every dish has a perfect balance of yin and yang. I haven’t had a single cold since I started coming here.”

  “Maybe that’s what’s wrong with Michael—too much yin, or too little. He’s always blowing his nose, or asking me if I have a Kleenex. It drives me mad. Drove,” she amended.

  There was a thoughtful pause. “You know, Freya, sometimes a person really needs a Kleenex and doesn’t have one. It doesn’t mean they’re a wimp.”

  Freya slapped the table. “For me, it’s simply not sexy. End of story.” She glowered at her friend. “You’re too nice. Promise me you’ll never marry someone just because you feel sorry for him.”

  Cat straightened her spine and fixed Freya with a portentous stare. “I’m no
t going to marry anyone,” she announced. “It’s official.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Cat wiped her mouth carefully with a paper napkin.

  “I’ve made a policy decision. I’m not dating anymore. I’m not ‘putting out.’ I’m going to stop searching, even subconsciously, for Mr. Right. I’ve had enough of getting dressed up, and wondering if I smell nice, and taking an interest in his work, and waiting for that phone call. The fact is, I don’t need a man.”

  She looked so fierce that Freya nodded dumbly.

  “I have a good job, enough money, my own apartment. A husband would only mess things up. Frankly, I’m not at all sure that the ideologies of marriage and feminism mesh. No. I have seen the future as a single woman—and it works.”

  Freya couldn’t help feeling skeptical. Anyone could see that Cat was made to have a husband, a home, and a tribe of children to manage.

  “What about love?” she asked.

  “Pure make-believe. I see husbands and wives every day in my work, and the truth is they hate each other. The men beat up their wives, steal from them, cheat on them. I’ve got a case right now of a woman in her seventies who’s suing for divorce on the grounds of unfaithfulness.” Cat sighed.

  “But sometimes you need a man, as an accessory. Say there’s a business dinner and you’re invited to bring your partner. What happens then?”

  “You hire one.”

  “What?”

  “Sure. From an escort agency. My friend Rosa does it all the time. She says you can tell them exactly what to wear and how to behave. They don’t get drunk, or tell embarrassing stories about you. Afterwards, instead of listening to them complain about how bored they were, you pay them off and go home.” Cat looked at her triumphantly.

  “What about kids? You love children.”

  “There’s always the turkey baster.”

  “Cat!”

  “I’m serious. There’s an AI clinic right in the building where I work. All I have to do one day is get out of the elevator at the fifth floor instead of the ninth, and I could walk out pregnant.”

  “Hmmm.” Freya tried to picture herself proud and free and single, an Amazon towering above the petty squabbles of the sex war.

  “What about sex?” she said.

  “You don’t need a husband for that,” Cat scoffed. “No. The fact is that women want romance, affection, fidelity, children, and an adult mind to engage with. Men want sex, unquestioning admiration, absolutely no responsibility, and a regular turnover. There’s no synergy.” She lifted her chin defiantly. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am since I made this decision. Frankly, I’m amazed you haven’t commented on my new aura of serenity. Now let’s have some litchis. Then I must run.”

  While Cat tried to attract the waitress’s attention, Freya stared thoughtfully at her friend—at her vibrant, expressive face, her creamy skin and curly mass of black hair, her voluptuous figure that scorned the cult of the body skeletal—and felt suddenly furious at the doltish male population of New York. Men should be falling over themselves to get hold of Cat.

  “If you’ve given up dating,” Freya asked, “where were you on Friday when I needed you?”

  “At my sister’s, babysitting. I gave Tonito his bottle and sang him a song, then I had two vodka martinis and reheated spaghetti all’amatriciana, watched When Harry Met Sally for the umpteenth time, and fell asleep on the couch.”

  “The perfect evening.”

  “I rest my case.” Cat looked smug. “Now listen, sweetie, I’m sorry I wasn’t home Friday, but you’re welcome to come and sleep on my couch for as long as you want. I’d adore it.”

  “Thanks, Cat, but I might as well stay at Jack’s, now I’m there.”

  “Is that the tall blond guy who was at the beach party last year?”

  “If he was carrying a six-pack of nymphets, probably.”

  “Mmm-mmm.” Cat smacked her lips in a vulgar Italian manner. “Maybe you should introduce me properly one day.”

  Freya frowned. “You just said you were off men.”

  “I said marriage was an untenable position for a feminist. I can always research my theory.” Cat’s eyes sparkled.

  “Well . . . just so long as you understand that Jack is not marriage material.” Freya felt it was her duty to warn her friend. “If you wanted to go to the beach, say, or see an old film, or do something dotty like ice-skating in Rockefeller Center, Jack would be the perfect partner. In all other respects his knuckles are still scraping along the ground.”

  “But you like him,” Cat pointed out.

  “I’m different. I’m immune.”

  “I see. Well, stay with him if you want to, but be careful.”

  “Of what, for heaven’s sake? We’re just friends.”

  “Men are funny. They see you wandering around in a bath towel, or hanging out your underwear, and suddenly they want to pounce. It’s an instinct thing.”

  “Pounce?” spluttered Freya. “Jack?” She pictured a blond gorilla in cut-off jeans and glasses, leering at her from the jungly undergrowth.

  “You may laugh, but proximity is the first law of sexual attraction. Men are lazy: they grab what’s under their noses. That’s why they all run off with their secretaries. People think it’s because the secretaries are young and beautiful and subservient, but really it’s just because they’re there. If men could send out from their desks, they would.” Cat held an imaginary phone to her ear and lowered her voice an octave. “ ‘One woman, medium rare, sex on the side, hold the nagging.’ ”

  “Stop!” Freya clutched her throat. “I nearly swallowed my litchi stone.”

  Cat was checking her watch. “Sweetheart, I hate to say this, but I really must go.”

  “I’ll walk you back. And I’m paying. No arguments.”

  Outside, Freya hooked her arm into Cat’s as they set off down the street. The morning’s rain had cleared, leaving the air summery and fresh, a good ten degrees cooler than yesterday. Sunlight filtered through a silvery sky, bouncing rainbow reflections off the World Trade Center in the distance. People forgot that New York was a seaside city, with its own special quality of light. You sometimes got fantastic effects at dawn or sunset, when the sky turned lime green or shocking pink. It was good to appreciate such things, instead of always rushing, head down, like that boring herd of office workers in their boring suits and—

  Freya gasped. “Quick!” she yanked Cat backwards and ducked into the shelter of the nearest building entrance.

  “What’s going on?” Cat shook her off.

  Freya peered out cautiously. “It’s him!” she whispered.

  “Who?” Cat whispered back.

  “Michael! You don’t think he followed me here, do you?”

  “Which one?”

  “Tan briefcase, blue shirt, crossing the road. Oh, my God, he’s looking this way!”

  “Hmmm. Nice suit.”

  “Bugger his suit. What’s he doing here?”

  “He’s a lawyer. That’s the courthouse. And I’m Einstein.” Cat smirked.

  Freya watched the dark figure retreating, one businessman in a shoal of look-alikes. Her hand was still pressed to her heart, but she was shocked to realize that, beyond a desire to remain invisible, she felt absolutely nothing. This was surreal. She’d lived with that man for five months. Three days ago she’d been thinking of marrying him. She remembered that a rejected lover had once told her that she had no heart, only a block of ice.

  When Michael was out of sight, they walked on in pensive silence, arm in arm. Maybe Cat was right about men. Here they were, two single women together, perfectly happy. No husbands to irritate them. No children to rush home to. Just friends. Cat would always be there for her, with her fold-out bed and comfort food, her affection and loyalty.

  Suddenly Freya felt optimistic again. She had taken this afternoon off work so that she could sneak into Michael’s apartment and grab the clothes she needed while he was safely at the office. Then s
he would start looking for somewhere to live and figure out what to do about England now that Michael had let her down. Somehow the future would sort itself out.

  CHAPTER 6

  “The important question,” said Leo, “is how you’re going to position yourself.”

  “Right here on this barstool seems pretty good to me.” Jack grinned and tipped a bottle of beer to his lips.

  The truth was, he was hellishly uncomfortable on the molded plastic seat, raised on its slim chromium stalk to an awkward height that left him pawing alternately for the footrest and the floor. These things might look cool, but they were made for Italians, not a six-foot-four American who liked to slouch. But he wasn’t about to complain. When it came to a free lunch he could take the rough with the smooth.